


White

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Demons, Gen, Irish Mythology - Freeform, Reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-18
Updated: 2003-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally written for Carmarthen's birthday.</p>
    </blockquote>





	White

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Carmarthen's birthday.

 

 

Aziraphale was resolutely ignoring all entreaties to take over Crowley’s workload for the next six months. The Arrangement was all very well and good, but he knew that Crowley would most likely forget about repaying the favour. The worst thing was that the demon would probably genuinely forget - he prided himself on his trustworthiness, which Aziraphale had always found endearing. But he’d have a hard time convincing Crowley in the future that there was six months worth of work to be paid off. Especially if the demon had spent most of the time drunk. He’d hardly remember his own name, let alone that he owed a favour, and there would be awkward explanations and a certain amount of resentment, and it was just plain easier to pretend that Crowley wasn’t even there, asking.

“Why not?” Crowley asked. “It’s not like you have anything better to do.”

Aziraphale bristled and turned the page of the book he was pretending to read.

“Come on. I need some time to myself. You know what it’s like. I feel all run down but I can’t ignore my quota. Come on, Aziraphale, be a pal.”

_I can't hear you_ , Aziraphale thought. He needed something to drown out the pleading. The blasted importunate, rude pleading.

“Aziraphale, I'll bring you back souvenirs. I’ll find you rare books. I’m _tired_ , Aziraphale. I need to rest. Please, it’s not as if I have anyone else to ask.”

What was it Crowley called using one sound to block out another? White noise, oh yes. Aziraphale turned a page and smiled to himself as the radio came on and tuned itself to static. _A bit too loud_ , he thought, and the sound lowered. Now just a little too low. Ahh. There. Right at the level of Crowley’s voice. Much more peaceful.

_Something!_ Crowley said. _Something, something something something Some_ -aphale?”

Blast. Turn the radio up just a little more.

A thin hand pushed the book down.

“Are you even listening to me?” Crowley said, very loudly.

“No,” Aziraphale said calmly, and lifted the book again.

It was quite an interesting book, if he could be allowed to read it in peace. Aziraphale had quite a thing for tragic love stories, although it wasn’t the sort of thing he admitted while sober. And this one had all the hallmarks of extreme tragedy, and the virtues of being very, very old. The oldest European vernacular literature, the preface had promised him, and so far he wasn’t at all disappointed. Terrible pagan stuff of course, but well, one should make an attempt to understand human cultures. He was rather regretting not paying much attention to Ireland at the time. Crowley had had a grand old time of it until the Patrick Incident. Those druid fellows, though, they were a rum lot. This Cathbad chap, he was one of the prime setters of tragedy in motion. A poor girl, promised to the king even before she was born, and locked away on Cathbad’s advice till she grew up so that she would never see another man. Aziraphale thought about it - this king Conor would have been a bit past it by the time she was grown up - far too old for such a young girl, surely? Poetic license, perhaps.

The pleading seemed to have stopped. Best not to turn the radio off though, it would only encourage Crowley to start up again. He shook his head over the unfortunate girl, all alone but for her tutor, a female druid. Deirdre was a feisty girl though, and had her own clear ideas about what she wanted in the way of love. Aged misery-guts kings apparently weren’t her style, as her complaints to her tutor made clear. Even before she'd seen a man she knew what beauty was, looking at the blackness of a raven that was eating a carcass, and the redness of the blood thrown into sharp relief by the stark white of the snow, she declared that that was what she wanted. A man with skin as white as snow, blood red flushed cheeks and hair as black as a raven’s wing. Aziraphale had already sneaked a look ahead, and knew she’d get what she was after, in a classic case of love at first sight of the desired characteristics - he supposed that had been a new literary device at the time - but it would hardly turn out well.

A hand shook his knee and Aziraphale reluctantly looked up. Crowley looked drained and miserable, paler than ever, except for the unhealthy flush in his cheeks. Pitch black hair flopped into his face and was pushed back with a white hand. He looked exhausted and more than a little ill. He looked pretty much exactly like Naoise did when Deirdre saw him first and fell, hard. Aziraphale shut his book. He already knew it was a tragedy, and that taking the steps to avert it would avail nothing. But one had to try, he supposed. He gave Crowley a sad smile.

“All right, my dear,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do for you.”


End file.
